Tag: short story

Twozdaz Wandering Thoughts

Enshittification! J’accuse!

Okay, this is a first world rant. Part of the first world blues I’m always singing.

My recurring prescription drugs are supplied through Express Scripts. And it works great. Except when it doesn’t. It didn’t this week.

I received a message from them to give them authorization to start an autofill on one of my prescriptions. I logged in and did as required. Another message came in: you have one item in your cart. Please complete your purchase.

WTAF?

I didn’t ‘complete the purchase’. I gave them feedback. Asked them to call.

Which they did. It was Kelly. She explained why she was calling in a chipper, professional voice edged with a little nervous quiver. I explained why I was annoyed. How I felt the system was telling me to do two different things. She then began explaining to me why my interpretation wasn’t correct. Nothing she was saying aligned with the messages or my experience. Reaching the point of irritation and recognition that nada was getting changed, I thanked Kelly and prepared to hang up.

“Well, do you want me to take care of getting the autofill restarted?” she asked.

Well, I thought I’d done that when I logged in and clicked on a button to start autofill. “Yes, please,” I answered. Kelly talked through the process of what had happened, what she was doing, and…

Her tone faltered. I sensed that she saw exactly what I meant in my complaint. Then, she finally said in a low voice, “Sometimes this system doesn’t make sense.”

Vindication!

I smiled.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Kelly asked.

My smiled stayed. “No, Kelly. You have a great day and a great week.”

“Why, thank you. You, too.”

With that, we said our goodbyes and I basked in my tiny, tiny victory.

1

Mundaz Wandering Thoughts

I have been reminded of how privileged I am. How easily I succumb to convenience.

I’m back in my regular drive. Mazda CX-5. Nothing fancy, we’ve had it for ten years. It’s packed 64,000 miles around its waist. The thing about this, though, are the automatic creature comfort features. And the key.

When we were visiting family in the Pittsburgh, PA, region, we trundled around in an older Toyota RAV4. Fine car but nothing special. But it lacked things like a key FOB that let me unlock doors just by pressing a button as I walked up to the car. The FOB permits me to start the Mazda without taking the key out of my pocket.

Man, did I miss that. I ended up putting the RAV4 keys in and out, out and in of pockets multiple times across the day. Oh, the horrors, right? But see, this is a matter of connections. With the FOB, I stick it in my left pants pocket and leave it there. With this RAV4 key, I was constantly putting it into a pocket or setting it down somewhere and then asking myself, where is that fucking key?

Wife and I approach car. It’s cold. About 40 F. Gray, with a light drizzle falling.

ME: “Wait.”

“What?”

“I can’t find the key.”

Wife stands, stares, waiting, not tapping her foot but looking like she’s on the verge.

Pockets are patted and felt, squeezed, then reached into it. “Here it is.”

My wife’s restrained look called me IDIOT so loudly, it hurt my brain.

One time I got out of the car to put gas into it. When I returned, it’s like, OMG, where is that damn key? Pat pockets again and again, dive into them…”Oh, here it is.” Damn it.

It was one of those big, long keys on a clunky handle. The key itself could be swung close to make it ‘more compact’. That was good because otherwise that thing gets caught on clothing. You press a button to flick it out, like a switchblade knife. This all required additional thinking about what I was doing, soaking up Neurons’ limited attention.

Me: “Where’s the key?”

Neurons: “We don’t know.”

Me, looking around and feeling pockets. “No one knows?”

Neurons: “We weren’t pay attention.”

Me: “Here it is.”

The button is clicked. The long key extends. I unlock the door. Put the key back into pocket. Get into car. Go to start it by putting my foot on the brake and pressing a button. The button is missing.

Neurons: “Dude, what are you doing?”

Me: “Trying to start the car.”

“You need the key. You must put it in the ignition and turn it.”

“Oh, yeah. Where’s the key?”

Neurons: “We don’t know.”

Thank tech that I’m back home where I just stick the FOB into my pocket and forget it.

I’m very, very good at forgetting.

0

The Gun Dream

This dream played out in three parts last night. Wasn’t much of me in it; I played a frustrated bystander.

I was with one of my younger sisters. We were milling, killing time waiting for something to go on. Details about that aspect were spare.

In walks a young man. Swarthy, with a cushion of dark, curly hair and a skinny, ripped body. Wears a tight maroon shirt and black pants. I barely know him but take it he’s a young man interested in one of my other sisters. He’s not very talkative. Chatter is going on around us but I’m a magnet on him. Studying his moves. Because something is off. I’m keen to know what.

I notice that as he shifts, he has an automatic handgun. He’s trying to hide it. I think he’s going to do something stupid with that weapon. Then he goes off.

Awakened for a cat matter, I reflect on the dream. It’s not out of my usual book of dreams. I lack clues about what it means.

The dream’s second act starts with me and the guy and my sister. I think the guy’s name is Paul. I try to talk to him. He’s truculent. We’re taking refuge in a garage that’s been converted into a bedsit sort of situation. The small space’s walls are cinder blocks painted white. Flourescent tubes give us stark lighting.

My sister is resting. I’ve covered her with a blanket but I’m watching Paul. Food is available, along with an old microwave. I offer to prepare something for everyone, talking to them about what’s available and what they might want. Paul is pretty furtive. I notice he has a black ski mask. Slipping it on, he leaves.

Figuring that Paul is off to rob someone, I’m angry. I rush out to chase him down and tell him not to do it. The door opens to an alleyway lined with a fence and thick with junk, like barrels, broken wooden pallets, and cast-off tires. It’s raining. The late afternoon light is anemic. Unable to see Paul, I return inside and put something into the microwave.

Another cat break is endured. During that time, I see that Paul resembles my sister’s father. She’s my half-sister, I should clarify, with a different father. I wonder about that as I tuck back into bed and fall back into sleep’s grasp.

Segment three has Paul returning. It’s much darker in the garage, and I don’t see him well but come to see that he’s still wearing a black ski mask. “What did you do?” I ask him several times, to no responses.

Someone pounds on the door. Adjusting his balaclava, Paul goes to the door. Aiming the gun at head level, he jerks it open. I wonder, police? Some other criminals? I hear speaing but can’t understand it.

That is where the dream ends.

0

Saturda’s Wandering Thoughts

I am again mystified. This isn’t shoutitfromtheroof news. I’m often mystified.

I know I mystify others, too. Especially my wife. She often avoids asking questions to clarify, preferring to express her doubts and confusion with her facial expressions. I used to ask her, “What’s that look for?” when I was young. I don’t make those inquiries these days.

My mystification is again with other people. Specifically, other drivers. They often mystify me. Cars stop four car lengths back from the car in front of them. “Why do they do that?” I ask myself and my wife. We laundry list reasons for fun. It’s not satisfying because I never know the real answer.

Other driving aspects which mystify me is the lack of adherence to speed limits. It’s not that I’m worried about speeding. I speed. No, the other drivers’ weird behavior in regards to speed limits trigger me. “It was thirty-five,” I tell my wife. “And they were going thirty. Now it’s a twenty-five miles an hour limit and they’re still going thirty.”

“I think most drivers don’t pay attention,” my wife says.

I agree with her in principle, but I don’t know. That bugs me.

The latest driving mystery involves turn signals. “I’ve noticed a new trend,” I tell my wife. “People are coming to a traffic light, stopping at the red light, but if they’re turning, they’re not putting on their turn signals before until they start to turn. Why do they do that? Don’t they understand what a turn signal is about?”

“Maybe they forgot where they’re going,” my wife says.

That’s possible. But I don’t know. That bugs me.

Returning from the library the other day, she rushed in and said, “You’re right. I had three different drivers not turn on their turn signal until they began turning. What’s going on? Why are they doing that?”

“Right?” I respond. I’m very pleased.

It’s always good to have someone else join your party.

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Munda’s Theme Music

It’s FOFFing* outside in Ashlandia, where the voters are liberal. Munda has fallen on us and can’t get up. A later winter storm is driving through the valley and the temperature is sticking to 35F. Supposed to rocket up to 48 F but that rocket might not get liftoff, if we use those clouds for our reasoning. If we use history and experience, the weather could go in any direction from here.

This is Munda, March 17, 2025. Which is, yelp, St. Patrick’s Day. Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you. Are you wearing green to draw some Irish luck your way?

*FOFFING: Fat Ol’ Flakes Falling

Watching those flakes reminded me of a cat experience. This is about Jade. She came to be with us in Okinawa. She belonged to the people up the hall in our apartment building. They had a toddler, and Jade didn’t take shit from anyone, telling them so with claws and teeth. So she came to us and was with us for 20 years more.

When she was four, we moved from Okinawa to the United States. This would be January, 1985. We were in San Antonio after landing to visit family. Jade was with us, as we’d just flown into the country. It began snowing. Jade had never seen snow, so she went out to experience it. She would take a step and shake a foot. Step, shake. Step, shake. Finally fed up of it after a minute, she returned to inside the motel room. I still grin, remembering her reaction.

Been catching up on the news. Hear there was some wicked weather across the United States and that the Trusk Regime thumbed their nose at a judge. It’s enough for me to groundhog back to bed for six more weeks. But I’ve served myself coffee so that’s not a current option.

Out of all that news catchup, The Neurons direction Twenty One Pilots to play their 2016 song, “Heathens”, in the morning mental music stream.

We don’t deal with outsiders very well
They say newcomers have a certain smell
You have trust issues, not to mention
They say they can smell your intentions
You’ll never know the freak show sitting next to you
You’ll have some weird people sitting next to you
You’ll think “How did I get here, sitting next to you?”
But after all I’ve said, please don’t forget

h/t to Genius.com

The coffee is doing its function. Take it slow and roll through Munda, St. Patty’s Day. Here we go. Cheers

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Some Light Reading

Filosofa Tries Something Different …

This is a tale by my friend, Jill. A quick read, something to divert your daily routine. Please enjoy. Cheers

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Sixteen Days

Note: Blame Afterwards for this. He posted Afterwards Writing Prompt #1 – Monday 8th of January – “Darla” – Sci Fi – Something a little sci fi to start the year off.

As I’m occupied with revising and editing a novel, my muses got excited and pushed out a small piece just to alleviate some creative juices. Cheers

Sixteen Days

Her first words were, “My name is Darla,” spoken a few seconds after she opened her luminous gray eyes, about a minute after they’d cut her umbilical cord.

As expected, a speaking infant galvanized reactions in the delivery room. They were just recovering from her eyes opening and the way she’d looked around. “I have never seen anything like that,” the nurse, Dee, avowed, her own eyes big and glowing with shock, “and I’ve been doing deliveries for twenty-six years and gave birth to five children of my own.”

The mother, Amy asked, “What’s going on?” A clamoring of explanations followed until her husband, Andi, said loudly, “Our daughter just told us her name is Darla.”

Amy said, “That’s not what I want to name her.”

“I know, I know,” Andi said. “The, the, the baby said it. The baby is the one who said her name is Darla.”

With Amy repeating with arching eyebrows, “The baby said that,” Darla said as the nurse handed her to Amy, “I’m sorry, Mom. I know you wanted to name me after Heather Cox Richardson because you admire her, but I was named before I was born. I’m Darla. It can’t be changed now. The history is already written.”

While others verbally speculated over what Darla said and hunted for clarification, Amy didn’t. Exhausted from giving birth, worn out from being pregnant, pleased to have this phase of her life completed and the fear of it gone, Amy just said, “Oh, okay.” Looking down into Darla’s intelligent eyes looking up into her own, she was thinking that she’d make sense of it later, after she’d slept about a year, after her body healed. She was just too exhausted to make sense of it now.

###

Three days old, Darla clambered out of her white bassinet – which was already too small – and walked over to the kitchen table where her mother was surfing the net on her phone. “Mom,” the little one said. “I’m sorry to disturb you but I want to talk to you while we have a chance.” Darla glanced back in a listening pose. “Before Grandma comes back.”

Amy, to be honest, wasn’t recovering well. Not post-partum depression, no, it was just shock over what her daughter was already doing. That dynamic made Amy avoid her daughter. “Seriously,” she told her mother, Gina, “I don’t like how my daughter looks at me. Is that crazy, Mom? Is that normal?”

“I don’t know.” Gina didn’t want to tell her daughter, hell yes, that’s crazy. Your daughter’s eyes aren’t supposed to be open yet. She’s not supposed to be talking and walking around and opening the refrigerator. Having given birth twice, she knew these things and had talked to her own mother about it. A walking, talking baby like Darla was creepy.

“How did you learn to talk like that?” Amy asked Darla.

“I learned while I was in your womb.” Darla had to constrain her impatience. She fully expected questions like this. “Remember, Mom, you carried me for nine months. You and Daddy read to me and played me classical music, along with some pop. FYI, I am so sick of Taylor Swift now, you played so much of her. Anyway, that’s how I learned to talk.”

“But that’s not natural. Are you really my daughter?” Amy refrained from letting the weird idea that her daughter was a demon, alien, or robot, be expressed because she didn’t want to embrace that in any way, but what else could she be?

Darla put her tiny hands on her little hips and stared up at her mother. “You ask me that after carrying me for nine months and six days, and then going through sixteen hours of labor? What do you think that all was, virtual reality? You – our whole family – talks a lot and you almost always had a television or radio on. I heard a lot, and I had a lot of time on my hands, so I was able to practice. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me.”

Judging her mother’s reaction, she said more gently, “Seriously, I know what you mean, Mom. I understand what you’re thinking, but believe me, I am your daughter. I’m not an alien or something like that, but I’m part of a project, which is called Project New Born. I know that it’s kind of cheesy, but I didn’t choose it.”

Darla stopped to listen for Grandma coming back. She’d heard steps and creaking and believed Grandma Gina – she had two grandmothers, but Grandma Belle had refused to visit her walking, talking grandchild, considering her, Darla heard her tell Andi, possessed by the Devil – was around the corner, listening. Spying, really. So what. Grandma Gina needed to learn this stuff sooner or later and she’d be pretty cool about it.

“Project New Born?” Amy listlessly repeated.

“I’ll tell you more about that later. I need to go somewhere tomorrow, so I’ll be gone. Don’t freak out, though, because I am coming back. I’ll be back in sixteen days, so don’t go crazy while I’m gone, Mom. I need you, I need your help, and I need you to be sane and sober, okay? Daddy is going to lose it, but he doesn’t matter nearly as much. I can overcome that. You matter more, Mom, you matter more, okay?”

Eyes half-closing, Amy said, “Wait, what? I didn’t understand any of that. Can you say it again?”

Indulging her mother, Darla began a repetition like she was reciting a poem. Amy broke in to ask, “You’ll be back in sixteen days?”

Her question pleased Darla because it showed everything was on track. “Yes, sixteen days. I know I’ll be back then because that’s how far I can see into the future.”

Fulfilling expectations, Amy repeated, “You can see into the future?”

“Yes, just sixteen days now, but that’ll change. Like, it wasn’t only one day when I was born, but it increases as I get more in tune with it, providing I stay on track, and will be able to see further and further into it. Part of that is because I’m from the far, far future, I’m talking centuries, and I’m genetically engineered to see the future. Yes, I’ve been sent back to save humanity. I’m just the first, though. There will be more of me, and then it’ll all start making more sense, okay? And yes, I am your child, you and Daddy, because your eggs and his sperm were acquired and sent ahead, okay? Listen, we’ll talk more later. First, I am starving, so let me go get Grandma Gina so she can make something to eat. Also, though, I also mention this today because I’ll be much more grown when I come back, so if you want pictures of me when I’m little, you need to get them today.”

She looked at her mother’s chest. “By the way, you’re leaking, Mom. I think you need to pump your breasts again.”

Turning, little Darla strode away on her tiptoes. Darla heard her muttering, “Stupid diapers. I can’t wait to grow more so that I reach things and use the toilet, and get my own food. I’m friggin’ starving.”

Amy watched her tiny dark-haired daughter go around the corner. Then she heard her speaking. She wanted a grilled cheese sandwich. Picking up the breast pump, Amy smiled for the first time since giving birth. It could be worse. At least Darla had ten fingers and toes and two eyes and was otherwise a perfect little girl with pretty eyes and a sweet face.

Pumping her breast, Amy thought, it’s going to be an interesting sixteen days.

2

Skeeter & The Bite

 Once when I was a boy, my mother told me the story of a soucouyant. At the time I didn’t believe her, but now, well, hell.

Skeeter showed up yesterday evening when Family Feud was on, right after I finished a supper of KFC with mashed potatoes and biscuits and four bottles of cold Bud Light, cause I’m watching my weight. Don’t know why I’m watching it. No woman looks my way and I ain’t gay, so most nights, it’s just me and rosy palm.

But Skeeter came over and after we’d talked about the news of the day and scorned the Federal government and and the libtards and finished a six pack of Bud Light, he said, “Le’ me show you sumpin’.”

I was eager for the moment cause Skeeter was actin’ like his tongue was swallowed. I knew sumpin’ was bothering him when I talked down about Nancy Pelosi and he barely waggled his lips.

So he’s rolling up his shirt sleeve and I’m asking, “So what is it?” He shows me a big ol’ bite on his arm. I remembered my mother’s tale then. She was always mother, never ma or momma or anything else. Said that those other words were unbecoming to a mother. Said there were poor expressions and she wouldn’t have it.

Anyway, there was a black and white glossy photo in the shoe box of family photos that hooked my eye like a big mouth swallowin’ the bait. Showed the same thing I was lookin’ at on Skeeter’s arm, black marks that ever since reminded me of a vampire’s bite. Gets me shiverin’ ev’ry time.

“That’s your father’s arm,” mother said, clasping her hands in front of her and looking down on me with that stern face and those steel-rimmed glasses she always wore. Always wore them and kept her hair in a tight bun. Told my friends that mother just screwed that bun on every mornin’ and then screwed it off for bed at night, and washed it off in the sink.

Mother said, “That’s where the soucouyant sucked his blood.”

I didn’t know what a soucouyant was and wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out but I was a defiant kid. I said, “No way. You’re makin’ that up. What is it, really?”

But mother insisted, told me how father had gotten his blood sucked and then how they caught that soucouyant by pouring rice around the house.

That confused the crap out of me. “What does rice do to her?”

“She has to pick it all up, and if she can’t before dawn, then you can get her,” mother replied.

“Why does she have to pick it up?”

“Because that’s her burden. Everyone has a burden and picking up rice is her burden.”

Well, I know cow patties without havin’ to step in them. I said, “No way.” She kept at me about it a little bit but I just tuned her out like I was changing the channel on a Baptist minister Sunday morning.

All that floated up to my brain’s top current while Skeeter was tellin’ ’bout how he woke up in his house and found some hag sucking on his arm. “Soucouyant,” I said in a break.

No, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t believe, not then. I thought Skeeter was full of dog turds. He spins some, let me tell you, a born liar. You ask him what color the sky is and there’s no knowin’ what color he’ll tell you. Most likely won’t be blue, though. Just about every other color but blue will be named.

So I thought he was havin’ fun with me, ’cause I know I told him once about mother and the soucouyant. Figured, he’s remember that for some reason t’day, and did that to himself with a fork or sumpin’. So gettin’ in the spirit, I said, “Well, we need to catch her, ’cause she’s gonna come back for more.” Then I stood, caused I’d been sittin’ about two hours and had honestly dispatched two six packs of Bud Light, which has enough alcohol in it with that volume to treat me to a buzz.

“Let’s go.” I grabbed my truck keys and headed out the front door. We stopped for a leak against the big sugar maple in the front yard while I told him, “We need to get to the Wiggley and buy some rice. How much money you got? We need more beer, too.”

We must’ve been a sight, grinning like proud fathers pushing our baby stroller on a Sunday afternoon, wheelin’ a cart full of Bud Light and Uncle Ben’s Rice upta the check out, ’cause you should’ve seen the way people was lookin’ at us. I always enjoy bein’ the recipient of those looks ’cause you know if you’re looked at like that, you’re livin’ life right. Me and Skeeter paid for it with Skeeter’s Discovery card — almost a hundred dollars. I thought he’d give it up and call time out, but he didn’t, he didn’t. He was stickin’ to his story.

We went over his place and drank our way through the Bud Lights and poured Uncle Ben all round his mobile home. Made a night of it, laughin’ and singing some songs we made up ’bout the occassion. When we’d emptied the last box, Skeeter asked, “Now what?”

Now it was about two minutes to middle of the night, so I said, “We catch some shut eye ‘n wait till dawn.” Then we settled into chairs with the teevee on and passed out.

Come dawn, yeah, we woke. I think Skeeter heard it first, a screaming cauter wailing like a queen cat in heat waiting to get some from a Tom. He rushed out, bouncing off some furniture, ’bout knockin’ over the teevee stand, crashin’ through the aluminum screen door.

As God is my witness, right hand on a stack of Bibles, there was a hag down on her knees, picking up grains of rice.

Neither Skeeter nor I said a word. We just gawked like hillbillies at a zoo.

But the hag looked up at us and screamed again. That sound was one thing, but the thing that chased the crap out of my body and inta my underwear was her face. Hand to God, seriously, she looked like mother.

I had no words. None. Didn’t know what else to do at that point. Hadn’t, hadn’t really planned to actually catch sumpin’, ya know?

Then Skeeter turns a scared, teary-eyed look on me. “That’s mama,” he whispered, tears rolling down into his stubble. “That’s mama.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Was the last time I drank a Bud, though, or any liquor for that matter. Don’t really have the money for it, with my need to buy rice.

Thank the Lord for Sam’s Club, ya know what I’m sayin’?

0

Just In A Dream

Another hill to climb.

Sweat plagued his eyes. He sniffed and swallowed, wishing for water. He’d been going since sunup. Heat and humility built around him. It seemed determined to crush him like a grape.

Giving up was considered and dismissed. He was here and going to do it. Doubt about whether he was following the instructions kept bouncing through, confusing him about what the little thing told him. Half-asleep, he wasn’t sure if it was a robot, tiny human, or something else, like an elf or fairy. They hadn’t introduced themselves. Maybe it wasn’t even real. Just his imagination.

Without preamble, “Just My Imagination (Running Away with Me)” derailed his thinking. Didn’t matter. He’d reached the hill’s crest. Signposts were ahead. An intersection. Down this hill and up another. Stepping faster, he was there in less than ten minutes, perspiring with more vigor, and breathless. He didn’t think he’d need water for this. Not for a dream. Didn’t think it’d be sunny, or like a day in any way.

The signpost was in the center of a large gold-bricked circle. Arrow shaped signs. About a hundred of them. No, more than that. Maybe a thousand. Different colors, languages, and printing styles. Looked crude. Homemade.   

His little nocturnal visitor sounded like an irritated teacher when they said, “I’m tired of you sitting around, whining, waiting, and wishing, so I’m doing you a solid.”

They pointed. “See that?”

Slow because he was half-asleep, he pressed to see what the little one meant even though the little one was still talking. “Get in there and turn left for the past, right for the future, or straight ahead to another existence. Whichever way you go, you’ll come to a signpost.

“You better hurry if you’re going to do it. The portal will close and fade, and your opportunity will be gone.”

“Wait, what?” He sat up. Yawned. Stretched. Rubbed his eyes. Massaged his genitals. Considered peeing. Frowned. “What?”

His small visitor was barely a fading memory. The opening remained where there was usually a wall. A portal? Thinking, I must still be dreaming and I’ll wake up at any moment, he entered the opening. Fearing the future, regretting his past – too many things to change there and who knows how it would turn out – he’d gone straight.

He stared up at the signs. Words emerged. Animals.

A frown creased his face. What was that about? He’d always liked cats and they liked him. He admired birds. Dogs were okay…

He stepped in the cat’s direction with slow, short steps. Shivers tickled him. Changes took place. His fingers were gone. Paws halfway through construction had replaced them. Looked like he’d be a black cat.

He backed up. More shivers traveling him, his fingers returned.

Did he want to be a cat? He looked back down the road he’d followed to come here with the thought, maybe he should have gone to the past to see what he could have changed. He might have been hasty.

The road was gone. Nothing was there. Gray nothing.

He walked toward it. The gray nothing stopped him from advancing. Like trying to wade through stiffening tar.

Well, what the hell. This was only a dream.

He turned back to the sign and read the offerings. No doubt, that’s what they were. Unicorn. Whale. Elephant. Dog. Kracken. Dolphin.

Dragon, he saw.

Dragon. It’d be so cool to be a dragon, even if just in a dream.

But bravery wasn’t in his personal inventory. He stood, staring, considering, flounder, eel, coral snake, eagle – eagle would be fun. Puma. Tiger. Heron. Emu. Alligator.

No. With all of his fears and hopes, the best thing he could become is something fantastic.

Happy with his decision, he turned and advanced, shivering and coughing as he grew and changed until at last he walked out of a high mountain cave into a purple dusk. Spreading his golden wings, he released a fiery roar and felt the world’s fear. Yes, being a dragon was going to be so cool.

Even if it was just in a dream.

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